Clarity
by dmnq8
Summary: It was a caress of such surpassing beauty, of such…clarity…that both men pulled away from it changed./ Giftfic for SasuNaruForever17. Sherlock/John


A/N: For the incomparable **SasuNaruForever17, **otherwise known as le wife. ^^

*Please forgive any typos I missed.

* * *

**Clarity**

Three days of pacing in his flat. Three days of zero sleep. Of solitude, of countless hours spent staring into space, and agonizing thoughts. Three days of that, and John finally went to the coffee table where the documents had been left. For a moment, he only looked at them. It seemed that every bitter, raging thought he'd had over the past three days lay in those pages. He plucked them up and shoved them into the back pocket of his trousers.

-oOo-

The taxi ride afforded him more time to think. He leaned his head against the window, watching the freezing rain mute London's colors to a dull grey.

_She's wrong_, he thought. The row had been long and hideous, but now he could barely remember anything of it, other than his firm belief that she was wrong. _But then why am I on my way across town? _Some part of him had to have believed her. The sheaf of papers in his trouser pocket was testimony to that. And with that thought some of the row came back to him at last. Disjointed, isolated things Mary had said.

"_He killed a man for you… I could see him dying each day, bit by bit… Did you hear his best man speech, or understand a word of it?... Can't do this anymore… You can't see it, but everyone else can… You didn't look at the flash, so you don't know me. And if you don't know me, how can you accept me?... Can't you see how much pain he's in?"_

And the one that burned the most, that he couldn't _stop_ remembering: _"Should have known when you proposed after knowing me for so short a time. Using me. To fill the hole in you, to shield you from the truth. Time you faced facts, John Watson, and stopped being such a bloody coward."_

Three days gone and it still ticked him off. All her words had done was spawn a load of questions he couldn't answer. They circled round and round in his mind, turning in on themselves until they ceased to make sense. A spiral of confusion that led him down, into places within himself he normally shied away from. He could feel himself withdrawing from that place even now, but there was a question. One particular question that, at the risk of losing everything he held dear, he suddenly needed answered.

When he pulled up to 221b Baker Street he all but threw the fare at the driver and slammed his way out of the taxi; he intended to have the answer to that question from the only person capable of giving it.

* * *

Words couldn't express how unutterably bored he was. A brilliant mind was a curse; no cases –none worth taking, at any rate- and Moriarty a complete no show since his little scene a month ago. _What on earth do people do with themselves?_ If John were here…

But the doctor had gone and gotten himself married, hadn't he. Infant on the way, probably deep in wedded bliss. He had to constantly curb his urge to ring the man. Married people needed their privacy. And John had to be mad for Mary to have married her… Well, he'd done all he could for John there. No use regretting the help he'd given, but the daily need to stop himself from reaching out for John grew tiresome. He had no use for sentiment.

_It's not sentiment. John is a part of me._

That much was true enough, as was the constant ache of his absence. It was an exercise in brutality, the way he deliberately stayed away from him, but it was for the best. _John, John, the married little doctor. _Ah, but his marriage didn't bear thinking about. He quite literally _could_ not think about it. It hurt too much.

Sherlock turned from his window, pacing back to the other side of the room, same as he'd been doing all morning. His hand trailed over the back of John's chair when he passed it. Somehow he'd been unable to put it away a second time. He paused near it now, taking in its careworn surface, before slowly sitting down in it.

He could not begin to list all the ways John had permeated his life. Inevitable, he supposed now, his own attachment to him. There had never _been_ anyone like John. No one who saw him as John did, or who reacted to him the way he did. The Woman was one thing. A mere attraction, love born of her misbegotten hero worship. So many people, women mostly, romanticized his sociopathic tendencies. Tiresome. But John…John had always been different. Throughout his life he'd been able to see how much he annoyed or flat out infuriated people, but he'd never been able to witness the transformation of another that was caused by his own presence in that person's life. He'd seen that with John. It was perhaps the first clue to just how important John would become, seeing his effect on the man.

In fact, looking back he could recall the precise moment when he'd known that this small, unassuming man – of all people on earth- had the power to reach inside him and touch his unreachable heart.

John had come to him somewhat broken. A psychosomatic injury, poor eating habits, possible depression… It had taken one night. One night in his presence for John to forget his limp, to sit down and actually eat something. He'd observed the man with wonder; no one had ever taken such emotional _nourishment_ from just being around him. He could have made some grandiose assumption based on the superiority of his company, but honestly he'd felt so honored. Genuinely so. And then…when John had responded to his assessment of him with such uninhibited praise… That was the moment he'd known John had the power to touch him. Really touch him. He'd touched him in that moment. And the touch had rocked him. Shifted the bedrock on which he based his equilibrium.

Then there had been the moment he'd known he loved John. That timeless moment on the roof of St. Bart's, when he'd been staring at John's face. Knowing how much he was about to hurt him. Hearing John scream his name as he fell. _One of the few times in my life I can actually remember crying. _

So many ways John had touched him: Shooting the murderous taxi driver; his flat refusal to spy on him for Mycroft, and even warning him about the threat; his blog, wherein he all but worshiped him; how he was always ready to stand by his side no matter the case they were on; his constant faith in his abilities, how he quite possibly thought there was nothing Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve. And last, but by no means least, how _nothing_ Moriarty said or did could shake John's belief in him. Nothing. Such was John's confidence that he'd actually thought death would be no hindrance. _Stop this. Stop being dead. _

The next two years had only been possible because he'd known John was waiting. He'd had John's happiness at seeing he was alive to look forward to.

But then Mary.

Ignorant as he was, he had enough sense to keep his virulent hatred of her well-hidden. _Very_ well-hidden. No one knew of it, not even Mary herself, and that was one astute woman.

He kept his hatred close. Deep down in the dark place where he kept his love for John. Another thing no one knew about. At times, usually the infrequent times his mind was at rest, he could feel the one emotion feeding the other. Feel them pulsating against each other. As if his love had given birth to a malignant child and was now stuck nursing it. He could feel, in these quiet moments, the way his hate fed off his love. How the emotion was as petty, irrational, and selfish as a real child. It was true that the more he loved John the more he hated anyone and anything that took him away, but in his defense… well, there was no defense. It simply was. Probably the reason he spent so much time both ignoring and denying it. A definite example of why, as he'd stated in his best man's speech, emotions stood opposed to the cold hard reason he placed above all. A thing that could not be reasoned out was generally a thing he had no use for.

Sherlock put his head against the back of John's chair on a sigh. It was all well and good to denounce his feelings, but it didn't change them. Reasonable or not, they were fact. Denying them didn't stop him longing for the days when he was all John thought about. Idly, he wondered how long he'd be able to continue to stay away. To keep from ringing the man on some pretense or other. Him, a man not given to pretense in the slightest, actually contemplating such duplicity in the name of…what?

He needed to get out of the flat, he decided. Fresh air, a case, anything but sitting here thinking about John would do.

But when he finally hoisted himself from the chair it was to find John standing in his doorway.

* * *

_He looks well, _Sherlock thought. _A bit serious. _"John. A surprise…is everyth-"

"What were you going to tell me at the airstrip?"

The question, John's expression, his body language…all these things suggested a conversation he'd rather not have. "I'm sure I don't-"

"Just tell me. What were you going to say, that you've wanted to say for some time?"

"Sorry? I-"

"Yes?" John's voice was a bit short. Impatient.

Something had to have happened, Sherlock thought. Something that had given him away, aroused John's suspicions. In which case John _would_ require answers, but it wasn't as if he'd committed a crime… "I rather think I've a right to know what you think you're doing, storming in here and demanding answers. I'm fine, thanks for asking." He started to turn away, then said, "Where's this coming from?"

John came into the room, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. "Well, it's funny you should ask. Mary, that's where. She's left me."

He'd gone to the window again, sure that John could read the answers he wanted on his face. Now he whirled back around in shock. "_What?"_

"Yes. Said she couldn't continue to keep me. She might have done, before I knew the truth about her. And if you'd actually been exiled as planned. But now she feels it's time she stopped…what was the phrase she used? Ah yes, time she stopped letting me use her as a shield." He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Anything to say on the matter?"

Despite his mind racing, trying to make connections from so many broken links, Sherlock both saw and heard the false cheer. "I don't understand. Before you knew the truth, what does that have to do with her leaving? You made it up with her, doesn't that sort of thing usually…" He twirled a hand in the air, searching for a phrase. "Bring people closer together?"

John ambled about the sitting room, looking at nothing and everything. "Before I knew the truth. In other words, before you shot a man for me."

"…I thought I did it for her? To keep her safe?"

"Oh, Mary's of the belief that you only wanted to keep her safe because she was my wife. Mine. You wanted to keep me happy. Said so herself."

"Did she." He couldn't look away from the terrible calm on John's face. Unlike him, the calmer John was, the greater his anger was likely to be. In fact, John could be feeling any number of things. That was the thing about his calm, it hid so much. "What else did she say?"

"Hmm?" John studied his chair, so recently vacated by Sherlock.

"What of my exile?"

"Ah, that. Mary was willing to keep me, despite all the signs pointing to what she calls the truth, if you were gone. You wouldn't be around to stir things up, after all. But since you _were_ staying, and since, as she put it, things had progressed too far for her to continue to be so selfish, she said enough was enough." He plucked a loose thread from a seam on the chair.

"So she left you." Sherlock waited as long as he could for an elaboration, but he had to ask. "_Why?_"

John turned with a look of surprise on his face that was as false as his cheer had been. "Haven't you been listening? Because of you!"

"Me."

"You."

"Because…?"

"Because I was a mess when she found me," John said, all false emotions gone. His voice throbbed with low fury. "Because she said the way I looked at you in that restaurant told her everything about _why_ I'd been a mess. Because she says you're in so much pain, pain that I'm too blind to see. Because you're jealous of her. Because you shot a man to protect what was mine. Because the way you smile at her and pretend to like her scares her, now that she knows what you're capable of. But most of all, because she says you were dead."

"I…she shot me. Without the intent to kill, but these things-"

"You were dead, Sherlock. Asystole."

"Yes, I…yes."

"A man does not regain sinus rhythms after time of death has been called, without resuscitation attempts in process. That doesn't happen, Sherlock."

There was nothing he could say.

"Mary thinks you crawled your way out of the grave, literally, because you thought I was in danger." John's eyes were augers. "The first thing you did when you rejoined the land of the living was to leave hospital –well before you were ready to do so- and come after her. To protect me."

"That is _completely_-"

"I've spent the last three days thinking, Sherlock. Trying, in vain I might add, to regain the denial I'd been living with-"

"Denial?" John was good at denial. So good he'd convinced himself of a limp that didn't exist.

"-for the past few years. I've come to the conclusion that I'll only be able to make sense of all this if I have the answer to one…single…question." John had been walking closer during this last bit. He was now directly in front of Sherlock, staring up at his flustered expression. "And that question is simple. What were you going to tell me at the airstrip?"

Sherlock feverishly ran through possible answers. Lies, all of them. He'd never been in a situation so out of his depth, had never been put on the spot so neatly, or found himself at such a loss.

Odd details of John's person jumped out at him as John came closer still, the way they always did, but this was one time the familiar deductions didn't soothe him. For one thing, they weren't familiar. _Rumpled clothing. Beard stubble. Dark circles beneath his eyes_. All things that pointed to John telling the truth. As unlikely as it was, as fantastical as John's account was, all signs indicated that it was the truth. It would explain why John hadn't slept, why he was worried, why a faint tremor could be detected in his voice as he asked that unthinkable question again. John was here, looking at him-

"Sherlock?"

And if Mary had really gone…

"What were you going to tell me at the airstrip?"

There was really no need to hide it any longer-

"_Sherlock."_

"That…I love you."

John stopped breathing for a moment. Just a moment. Then his head described a single, slow nod. His eyes remained on Sherlock's. "And would that be the way I said it to you, back when I asked you to be my best man, or…?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes. Which was answer enough.

At hearing the words, and seeing the red stain climb up Sherlock's neck, something in John was liberated. Something he'd kept in chains. Something he'd always refused to acknowledge, despite just how much space it took up in his life. He thought it had died when Sherlock jumped from that roof, but it had come roaring back to life in that restaurant. It had been roaring to be free ever since. Mary was right about that, he'd used her as a shield to block out the sound of that thing howling for release. He'd tried. Tried to ignore it. Had taken Mary back, despite what she'd done, but she was gone now. And now, hearing the words, _seeing_ reality at last, the thing broke free and he was powerless against it. Utterly powerless.

* * *

They were quiet. Still. When Sherlock at last gained the courage to lift his eyes it was to find John's gentle smile waiting for him.

Stunned, Sherlock made a quick bid for understanding. "Do you…do you feel the same, then? Is Mary really out of the picture? What-"

John silenced him by tenderly grabbing his face. "Not now, Sherlock. Now…I'm going to kiss you."

Neither of them could quite mask their nerves. There was a moment, just before their lips touched, when Sherlock pulled back. Just a bit. John hesitated, unsure himself if this was the right way to go, if they even needed to do this… They hovered there, sharing breath. But then John's fingers threaded through the unruly curls, Sherlock stepped into him, and it was happening.

It was a caress of such surpassing beauty, of such…clarity…that both men pulled away from it changed. They stared at each other. Measuring, weighing, asking silent questions…

Sherlock closed his hands on John's wrists, brought them up around his neck, took hold of his courage, and kissed him seriously.

* * *

Time slowed. Then stopped.

It seemed to freeze at odd moments. Like snapshots, each was a bright flash in their minds: They were still kissing. Clothes being discarded. Hands, hot and eager, all over each other. Sherlock turning John around to press the man's back to his chest. John closing his eyes at feeling Sherlock's lips on his nape.

Falling into bed, both of them nude.

John found himself propped on his elbows, hands clutching the bedding. Completely unable to look away from those piercing eyes as Sherlock crawled up his body. He'd never have guessed the man's skin could be so smooth and warm where their legs slid along each other. And then he felt the velvety heat of Sherlock's shaft gliding along his own. His flinch was answered by Sherlock's sudden stillness. A look of doubt crossed those chiseled features.

"John…"

"No." He leaned back. Reached up and hooked his arms beneath Sherlock's shoulders, embracing him. "Come to me. Don't talk. Just…"

The feel of Sherlock settling his weight onto him, of their bodies meeting in full, intimate contact at last, was heavenly. There was a sigh. Sherlock burying his face in John's neck. John's knee sliding along Sherlock's hip. A slow, burning, intoxicating exploration of each other. Time spent quelling anxieties. Letting uncertainties fade. Feeling doubt leave entirely as stimulation was finally felt. Enjoyment settled in. The enjoyment gave way to blatant pleasure, which in turn climbed to hunger as harmony was found in their awkwardness. There was no hesitation to their kisses now. Nothing but urgency; the hunger blossomed into a fever, a white-hot need as the truth came out at last. Declared with a single, powerful thrust that had John arching on a shout of Sherlock's name.

A wince. Harsh pain. John's lip caught between his teeth. None of which slowed Sherlock down, now that they were one. There were adjustments made. Apologies tendered through the hard, if erratic, rhythm that had them both slick with sweat. For a time it was unspeakably awkward, but the stiffness of pain and inexperience gradually left, to be replaced with a smoother rhythm. One that had them gasping with renewed pleasure.

The taste of their acceptance, the smell of their love, the _feel_ of lies they'd been living finally released…it was all around them. In the way Sherlock dropped his forehead to John's, momentarily unable to go on. In the way John ran a hand down the wet, slippery length of Sherlock's back to cup one cheek. It was in their names, murmured by one, groaned by the other. In strength restored, movement resumed, and John panting with hot excitement in Sherlock's ear. The driving, unstoppable thrusts had the heat and pleasure building, soaring, spiraling until neither of them thought they could endure another second of it and survive…

* * *

John slept. He thought maybe they both did, but when he turned over with the intention of rousing Sherlock, it was to find him already awake. A closer look showed his friend –lover now- flat on his back, eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. "Sherlock?"

_Sound. Word. Name. _Sherlock needed a moment to first recall what movement was, then to discover how to turn his head. He did so slowly. _Man. Face. _"…John."

John gave a crooked smile. Scooted closer to let his finger play with one damp curl. "Don't think I've ever seen you like this." He gave in to the urge to lay flush against Sherlock's side. Now that the heat of the moment was gone, the cold shadows of doubt were creeping back. Contact with Sherlock helped keep them at bay. "All things considered, I should be the one left mute."

Having never been brought to such a grinding halt, Sherlock's mind needed several more minutes to begin working again. The gears turned sluggishly, but once in motion they steadily picked up speed. At length he blinked, and was aware of his surrounding. Of John. Of John's body, soft and hard and delicious, snug against his side. Of what they'd done. He cleared his throat. "Well then."

"Yes."

"Rather…enlightening, I'd say."

"Mm, quite."

"John, I…" He stopped, re-wording what he was about to say. "If I've over-stepped…don't _quite_ know how this…If I was incorrect in any way…"

John listened to the faltering words with a small frown. It wasn't until Sherlock gave up and stopped speaking that he registered the agitated heartbeat beneath his ear. He lay there a moment, several moments, as realization set in. Quietly, he said, "That was your first time."

"Probably did a bad job of it," Sherlock muttered. "Forgive me."

Did the impossible man not remember the pleasure they'd shared? _Brilliant mind, but so _dense_ sometimes. _"Forgive you. Of all the people you know, all the people in the world, you chose me to be your first-"

"And last, I hope."

"-and you want me to forgive you for that. For…" Words failed him. He swallowed thickly. "I don't think I've ever been humbled by anything you've done before. You've given me the greatest possible gift: yourself. You've given me yourself, Sherlock, given me what no one else in your acquaintance was worthy of receiving apparently, and you're _apologizing_? For thinking that I alone was deserving of such an honor? _Forgive_ you?"

"John…"

He leaned up at last as a tidal wave of conviction swept the shadows away once and for all. Sherlock's face held nothing but doubt. Seeing this, John felt his throat close up and his vision blur. "The moment I knew I loved you was the night I looked up to see you posing as my waiter, but that's not _when_ I started loving you. I think I started loving you the night I went on my first case with you. During that ridiculous run to catch that taxi. I love you, Sherlock." He paused, watching the doubts slowly being replaced with wonder. "And I will not forgive you for giving me the thing I've wanted more than anything else in my life."

"Not…_me?_" Sherlock asked in a hushed voice. It was one thing for him to want John; he was a sociopath. For John- good, sane John- to want him in return…"Never say _I_ was the thing you wanted most?"

"Yes. You."

John studied the dazzling smile. So uninhibited. Unguarded. Free of anything but full, incalculable trust. The kind of smile he'd never seen on Sherlock's face. The kind of smile he suddenly knew no one else but him could _put_ on Sherlock's face. In the face of this sobering revelation, John felt rich beyond measure. Gifted with something beyond price. Beyond the value of Heaven itself. _He's kept his heart locked away his entire life, but now he's given it to me. Put it in my hands without the slightest qualm. I can never hurt him, never break the colossal depth of faith this man has put in me. _

And he wouldn't.

* * *

Sherlock slept like something dead.

John sat looking at his relaxed features, marveling at their innocence. _He won't be easy to live with, but then I never wanted easy. I just wanted him. _

There'd been a second time. Part of a third, a nap, then a fourth time that had left him shouting Sherlock's name again. He'd been weak as a kitten when he crawled from the bed. Night had fallen hours ago. All in all he supposed they'd gotten lucky; the entire thing could have gotten very messy. He supposed there would have to be a few life changes made. For his part, he couldn't see getting physical all that often. Mary had been fine with twice a week, if that, but Sherlock –dear, asexual Sherlock- had shown a singular and slightly perturbing focus in the act itself. Matched by a hunger John wasn't sure he'd be able to match. _Oh, what are you on about, you seemed to match him just fine._

That was certainly the truth, he thought with a twinge of embarrassment. He wasn't sure what it said about his sexuality that he'd enjoyed Sherlock, awkward bits and all, more than he ever had his own wife. Christ, Mrs. Hudson was going to have a field day.

He stared at sleeping Sherlock until dawn, going over and over how deliberately obtuse he'd been for so many years. Even now, he couldn't say that he was gay, but he definitely wanted Sherlock. It nettled him that so many others could see that about him when he couldn't see it about himself. He didn't think the days ahead would be easy for either of them, but even imagining what everyone would say, how impossible Sherlock was bound to be as a partner, there was no hesitance on his part. Sherlock loved him. Wanted him. Had shown him more trust, more faith, than John felt he had a right to. He was all in, completely. _I won't let you down either, my friend. Never._

* * *

At length he got up and wandered out of the bedroom. He found his trousers on the hall floor, near the sitting room. Bending, he pulled the sheaf of documents he'd brought with him out of the pocket. Unfolded them. Studied the fine print.

-oOo-

_At the end of it all, when she was pulling on her coat, her back to John, Mary reached into her handbag and withdrew some papers. She only held them, looking down at them as she turned one last time._

"_I'm not saying I don't love you. It's because I love you that I'm doing this. I want what's best for you, and this…is…what's best for you. Trust me. And Sherlock, after what he's risked for me, deserves his shot at happiness. I can't continue to stand in the way of that." Here she looked up at him, eyes swimming in tears. "I couldn't do this if I didn't love you so much. And I know you love me. I do. You just love him more. You're obsessed, John, completely taken with the man. Go to him. See for yourself. Decide. I'll just leave these here for you. If I get them back, signed, well then I'll know I was right. If you come find me instead, then…" She shrugged, clearly of the belief that the second possibility wasn't very likely._

"_And what about us?" he said through his teeth. "The baby?"_

"_Oh, no matter what you decide, we'll still be here for her!" She gave a wobbly smile through her tears. "I imagine that once your decision is made the three of us will have a grand time raising her. She'll have her two dads and me. She'll be loved, John. And I'll always be in your life, if you'll have me…just not like this."_

_She left, shutting the door softly behind herself._

-oOo-

John had to wipe his eyes first, but he hunted up a pen. When he had it in hand, he flattened the documents on the kitchen table, going over his decision one last time. Finding no doubts, no hesitance, nothing but a bittersweet mixture of joy and regret, John signed his name on the divorce papers, right beneath Mary's.


End file.
